


Drowning

by Landscape



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Personally I wouldn't define this as Angst, Sherlock is a Mess, So is John, Tags Are Fun, Water references, could be confusing, more like a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Landscape/pseuds/Landscape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...After all, why shouldn't a mental palace be a marsh?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning

 

 

There's something heavy within him.  
Sherlock feels like a cutting mass of chains, gears, rust; tangled wires entwining, snapping, shoving him in an implacable stillness -and he feels so heavy.  
When adrenaline inevitably vanishes, and he remembers once, perhaps a long time ago, being so very surprised by the ephemeral results of his own brightness, when he has opened every single drawer, read the most yellow and spidery of pages and opened up all the windows (thin, rose-windows), when he realises that this misty cloud of fine dust could obstruct his mechanisms Sherlock feels the pressure, the _oppression_ knocking on his chest.

Water rises, and he starts sinking.

 

He dreams of oceans overwhelming him, of cold, turbid, salty snakes -he cannot breathe, his throat is burning and he cannot move because everything is so white and _still –_ but water covers, devours, macerates. He's rotting in an agonising unhurried pace, gentle and soft; after all, why shouldn't a mental palace be a marsh?

Everything dies, crumpled in on itself, metal putrefies. His skin starts peeling off.   
Sherlock fears nothing will be left of him, not even his solitude.  
He remembers his mother holding his hand during those heavy days, when he was a little child and everything seemed bound to get better, then Mycroft's tender voice reassuring him ('you're fine, you're fine' -he should have listened to him, should have turned water into ice, ice is so much stronger than this _heaviness_ ) , solitude, meaninglessness, detachment magnified by drugs (and why does he have to be so clever? He doesn't want to think, he doesn't want to disappear, he doesn't want to know he will eventually vanish into that watery nothingness) – drugs, and then holding John's hand.  
Warm and strong, the hand of a soldier who could break his chains and tame the salty snakes.

 

A brief rest, a gentle wave reflecting the spring sun. John dreams of sand and blood, but it's so much better than water. All in all, sand and water is a good combination.  
He falls, and perhaps the second time John is haunted by air, perhaps by the scissors-like sound of a body jumping down; in spring a lovely woman in a white dress, surrounded by roses and lies, kisses John as she takes him away.   
She's nice, though. Sherlock doesn't see water in her, so that's probably a good thing. Water tends to wet and ruin.

 

Boredom, rust and salt.

Sherlock avoids sleep, because in his dreams water impregnates his very marrow, corrodes and drags him in a place he used to belong to a long time ago, when nobody would have ever thought of writing a blog about him, when nobody thought he was amazing.

Sinking and rotting, looking at the world from the bottom of a marsh that feeds on this wearying brain of his, all of this is normal for Sherlock -and John, who secretly wishes not to deny for the rest of his life how powerfully he loves Sherlock's relieved gaze, how he treasures the sense of liberation he gives Sherlock when they hold on to each other.   
Together waters come clearer.

 

Looking into his wife's eerily flat eyes, talking to her only to feel boiling mud under his feet, searching -even though he's not trying hard- for a less cruel truth in those leaden eyes that were going to drag Sherlock down the most crushing abyss, to absolute and permanent stillness ...now, this is a whole new thing for John.  
He feels heavy, and his weight only sinks Sherlock further.   
Heavy, extraordinary, complex, agonizing.

 

Sherlock, who won't be able to bear all this forever, not without John to raise him to the surface defeating the undertow; this seems, suddenly, the most important thing. It's a strange sort of epiphany, one that tastes like delay , like a rushed remedy : the desperate pray of the unbeliever on the verge of losing everything.   
John doesn't, he _shouldn't_ deserve a way out, but God, Sherlock is worth a thousand attempts.

John must leave Mary to rot in his sludge of lies and take Sherlock's breath back, because this madman's heartbeat, this crazy  _aliveness_ – that of the man who dug in the shifting sands and grabbed him, is more necessary than an apology , more than a wail.

 

Together waters come clearer.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of nowhere and it's my first work in this fandom, even though I'm into Sherlock since last year. I know it's nowhere near good, but I decided to give it a try. 
> 
> It would be lovely if you could spare a moment to tell me what you think, feedback is always appreciated^^


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